Mugged by a Moose: True Tales to Make you Laugh, Chortle, Snicker and Feel Inspired

Summary

Extraordinary Stories from the Great Outdoors.

Is a bad day spent outside really better than a good day at the office? This collection of twenty-three short stories, written by twenty semi-intrepid adventurers, aims to answer that question. Alternately laugh, cringe, giggle and feel inspired by our writers as they tell some of the most outrageous tales from the Great Outdoors you've ever heard.

* Traverse the length of Prince Edward Island on a wheeled living room sofa with Brent Curry and his unsuspecting Danish friend.

* Paddle a canoe from Canada to the mouth of the Amazon River with two accidental adventurers from Great Britain.

* Make friends with Rick Kunelius, a Banff-based marriage commissioner who weds couples under very unusual circumstances.

* Learn about the curse of marrying an adventurous husband from Leslie Bamford.

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Mugged by a Moose - Matt Jackson

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Acknowledgements

Introduction

By Matt Jackson

Auniversity acquaintance once told me a story about a canoe trip he took in Ontario’s Algonquin Provincial Park, one of the province’s oldest and most cherished wilderness parks. With more than 7,500 square kilometres of boreal forest and hundreds of bogs, lakes, and rivers, Algonquin is an ideal playground for canoeists. It is also an ideal home for moose, so it’s not surprising that people travel from all over the world to see these animals in their natural habitat.

Several days into the trip my acquaintance and his paddling partner finally got their chance. They rounded the corner on a long portage and spotted a bull moose grazing on some aquatic plants about a hundred metres from the trail. They dropped their packs and whispered excitedly to one another. This was the moment they had been waiting for.

After a few moments the moose looked up and stared at them. For whatever reason, he decided he wasn’t happy about having his meal disturbed. He snorted loudly, bellowed, and charged through the forest toward the startled canoeists, his antlers thrashing wildly through the underbrush.

My acquaintance told me he’s never been able to dunk a basketball, and yet he managed to leap more than ten feet to reach the nearest tree branch. There, he and his friend sat for a very long time, while the angry moose paced around the base, snorting and stomping his hooves.

I wasn’t sure what to think of this yarn when I first heard it. Had the canoeists been taunting the moose? Had they flashed their red underwear at him? Was the story even true? I was a bit skeptical. Since then, I’ve heard several anecdotes and had personal encounters with moose that have convinced me it’s probably true.

It would be downright unfair, of course, to paint moose as nothing more than big outdoor bullies. Yet there’s no question they can be ornery and temperamental at times. Any seasoned outdoorsperson knows that you don’t want to cross paths with a bull protecting his territory during the fall rut. Or a cow protecting her calf in the spring.

Some of the moose encounters I’ve heard about are absolutely unbelievable. They’ve not only inspired the title for this collection of true tales, they’ve inspired the story with the same name, which I will let you read for yourself without giving away any juicy tidbits. Let’s just say you haven’t really experienced a bad day on the road until you’ve had a moose jump off a roadside cliff and land on your red sports car.

Compiling this book has been a real pleasure, and I’ve selected stories for a variety of reasons. I’ve always preferred books that keep readers on their toes, which is why I’ve resisted the temptation to lump stories into neat little categories. Besides, a story that makes one reader laugh uncontrollably might fall flat with another. Likewise, a story that inspires some readers might mean nothing to somebody else. Still, many of these tales will hopefully coax some laughs, chortles, snickers, and giggles from you, as writers share some of the laughable predicaments they’ve found themselves in.

A few of these situations are self-perpetuated, such as when Brent Curry builds something resembling a two-person bicycle using his living room couch, and then talks his unsuspecting Danish friend into joining him on a bike trip the length of Prince Edward Island. As Curry relates in his story, he figured that because English was his friend’s second language, he wouldn’t readily question the odd juxtaposition of phrases like ninety-five-pound chesterfield with self-contained bicycle travel.

Other situations took our contributors completely by surprise, such as when Terry Gowler watched with horror as his wedding ring slipped from his finger and fell into Barkley Sound on a sea kayaking trip. Another of my favourites, which is more apt to create a general sense of awe or wonderment, is about Hazel Booth and three friends who rescued a moose from drowning in an icy Yukon lake.

There are even a couple of epic adventures that you won’t want to try at home, but are nevertheless great to read about. Join Marty McLennan for the first-ever traverse of Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula on a bicycle, riding on roads as greasy as a cookie sheet. Another story features two accidental adventurers from Britain who initially wanted nothing more than a summer canoe vacation in Canada. Three years later they arrived at the mouth of the Amazon River in Brazil, having survived frostbite on the Mississippi, dodged bullets in Nicaragua, and portaged five hundred pounds of gear across a seventy-five-kilometre desert in northern Columbia. And to think they funded their trip by selling hats made out of palm fronds.

We all venture into the outdoors for different reasons. Some of us go to challenge ourselves, to purposely put an element of hardship into our lives that modern technology and comforts have largely eradicated. Some seek escape from the workday hustle and bustle, finding solace in something as simple as the rhythm of a paddle stroke, or the smell of morning coffee brewing on a campfire.

Yet others go for the Great Unknown, the simple mystery of not knowing what lies around the next bend in the river, or over the next mountain ridge. It might be a crimson sun setting the clouds on fire, sinking slowly into the Pacific. Or a summer shower that will bring out the sweet scent of a pine forest. Or a pocket of blueberry bushes ripe for harvest.

Then again, it might be the sound of an angry moose charging through the forest toward you, right after you’ve dropped your drawers to relieve yourself. Maybe next time you’ll leave your red underwear at home.

Predatory Rites

Finding one’s place in the Polar food chain.

By Philip Torrens

There is nothing quite like the experience of nearly being eaten to make you appreciate how fleeting your position atop the food chain is. In the summer of 1993, I became one of the lucky few to acquire this sort of insight.

Backcountry tourists, as opposed to those who live in the wilderness, seem to fall into two equally simple-minded groups. Those of the old school are convinced that behind every bush, a predator lurks expressly for them. They are barely able to stagger down trails under the burden of rifles and grenade launchers. Late-night forays to answer the call of nature are made perilous by the razor wire and minefields they have used to secure the camp perimeter. These folks have delusions about their own importance in the scheme of things.

Equally naive in their own sweet way, members of the other school skip down trails strung out on alfalfa sprouts, certain that the woodland critters will sense the purity and goodwill bursting from their little whole-wheat hearts and love them for it. The beasties will love them, all right—for their nutritional content.

You may be attacked if you happen to fit a creature’s dietary needs, or if you appear to be threatening its young. Try not to take it personally—that’s just life in the wild. With the same lack of malice, forced to choose, I would rather kill than be killed. (I believe as much as anyone that predators are among nature’s most marvellous creations. I also believe the perfection of their bodies is best appreciated from the outside.) With this in mind, my travel partner Mark and I carried a shotgun on our trip from Inuvik down the Mackenzie River to the Beaufort Sea.

The federal government publishes an earnest and unintentionally hilarious pamphlet on bear attacks. To respond correctly to an encounter, it solemnly counsels, first determine what species of bear you are confronted with. If it’s a black bear, do not bother climbing a tree, as it will bound up after you. Grizzlies, on the other paw, supposedly do not climb trees well. This is reassuring until you learn that a grizzly may weigh up to 600 kilograms. Any tree he cannot readily knock over, he can probably shake you from as though harvesting a ripe apple.

In any case, how does one tell the difference between species? It’s easy—simply take a good, close look at the claws. If they’re hooked, it’s a probably a black bear; if they’re gently arched, it’s a grizz that’s got you…

Given that we were travelling above the Arctic Circle, neither black bears nor trees seemed likely encounters, so we acquired a second booklet from the government of the Northwest Territories. It was full of sensible advice, with one discouraging exception regarding polar bears.

Polar bears live in the North, and are a vital part of the traditional lifestyle. Guided bear hunting—and the subsequent skinning of both bears and Southern hunters—adds thousands of badly needed dollars to the economies of northern hamlets. Due to their larger breeding populations, tourists are far more easily replaced than bears, and the Hunters’ and Trappers’ Cooperatives do not want bears killed frivolously. The brochure therefore requests that you not shoot at a bear unless it comes within ten metres.

We are talking about an animal that can move faster than a racehorse, with a skull that is armoured like a tank. I confess that we decided we would open fire at any bear within shotgun range and re-erect the tent within ten metres of any resulting casualties.

After kayaking down the Mackenzie River and along the edge of the Beaufort Sea, we arrived at a point about three hundred kilometres northeast of the teeming (with mosquitoes) hamlet of Tuktoyaktuk.

Our bear cunningly waited until we both lay asleep in our cozy tent at five o’clock one morning. My first hint of trouble was a violent cuff to my forehead, which spun me from my back onto my stomach. This was followed by a low growl in my ear and claws driven deep into my right shoulder. I reacted instinctively, mumbling something vague about being too tired and having to work in the morning, and curled tightly into a fetal position. When the unwelcome attentions persisted, I came to suspect that something was amiss. Strengthened in this conviction by the sight of the tent wall being hit—apparently by a battering ram, to the tune of hearty baritone bellows—I hastily quit my bed. Or rather, tried to.

For a realistic simulation of what it is like to extricate yourself from a mummy sleeping bag in such circumstances, you may want to have a friend dump you into a burlap sack, secure the drawstring with a granny knot, and wallop you with a baseball bat at random but frequent intervals while you try to get out. Then again, you may very well not want to do so. There’s no accounting for taste.

Mark, who had initially attributed the thumps and cries from my side of the tent to a nightmare on my part (which, in a sense, was correct), now sat up and rapidly revised his assessment: A bear! It’s a bear!

I had become convinced of this on my own, but it was reassuring to have him concur. I could be satisfied that I was not advocating hastily opening fire on what might only turn out to be a socially disadvantaged ground squirrel whose crack cocaine habit was a desperate cry for help.

The motion to shoot having been quickly debated, seconded, and passed, the only remaining logistical difficulty was locating the shotgun. It was buried beneath the fallen nylon fabric and aluminum poles, which were (unaccountably) failing to withstand the assault.

Compounding the problem, the bear—as is typical of all large, hairy bullies—refused to allow a time out for me to locate my glasses. In the end, I was forced to kick at the collapsed side of the tent in an effort to dig up the gun. Just as I succeeded and tossed the weapon to Mark, the bear seized my foot in its mouth. I spent an exhilarating few seconds being whipped back and forth on the end of my leg. I recommend the experience to anyone who’s ever wondered what it feels like to be the mouse the cat plays with.

The next item on the bear’s agenda seemed to be either to chew off my size nine-and-a-half foot as an appetizer or to drag me from the tent, where it would be easier to fillet me into McNuggets. Fortunately, my coolly improvised, two-tiered counterattack—which combined my overripe socks with eardrum-piercing shrieks—forced the bear to gag momentarily. I quickly pulled my leg out of range.

Mark had the gun ready by now, but prudently remembered that a non-lethal hit on a bear merely worsens its disposition. We could not see our attacker through the tent, so he fired a warning round at the roof, which he managed to hit with his very first shot.

Since I was momentarily indisposed, Mark was left with the unenviable task of sticking his head out through the top of the tent, not knowing if he was going to have his noggin knocked off for his trouble. Fortunately, Brother Bear had beat feet outta there.

In hindsight, the reason for the attack was almost certainly the food odour on our tent. I can hear the righteous wails arising from across the nation. Everybody knows you don’t eat in or near your tent in bear country. Everybody, Mark and I included, does know that.

However, even in the summer, a heat-leeching wind steals almost continually across the Arctic. The only sure way to rekindle the body’s inner fires after long, cold hours at sea in a kayak is by consuming hot food. And the only way to keep food hot long enough to do any good is to keep it out of the wind. And the only place out of the wind above the treeline is … in your tent. So call it a (badly) miscalculated risk.

One ironic aspect of all this one-sided shadow boxing is that we never actually saw our assailant well enough to figure out what sort of bear it was. Since that same inability to see undoubtedly prevented the bear from killing me, I won’t complain.

During the subsequent investigation, the Wildlife Department biologist expressed the opinion, based on the location and time of year, that it was probably a polar bear. If so, I am even luckier than I had imagined, as polar bears are one of the few animals that actively hunt humans.

Overall, we got off extraordinarily lightly. We did not have to kill one of nature’s noblest creations (thank Heaven for that—the paperwork is endless if one does). I bear (sorry about that) a very faint mark on my forehead, which I feel I can legitimately pass off as a duelling scar. My right shoulder features claw marks that will require earnest and detailed explanation to any future inamorata, and the minor wound in my right foot doubles as a handy barometer. We look forward to resolving our dispute with the tent manufacturer over what constitutes non-warrantied product abuse any day now.

People naturally ask whether this experience has left me afraid to venture into the wilderness, or whether it has changed my backcountry habits. Certainly not. You may encounter me on a backcountry trail anytime soon. I’ll be the one in the stainless steel underwear.

A Vancouver writer, Philip Torrens is a seasoned backcountry paddler—though apparently not to every bear’s taste.